


Earned

by SkinSlave



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Marilyn Manson - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gore, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Makeup, Medical Torture, Murder, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Smut, Snuff, Torture, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 23:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave
Summary: A pact between an artist and a canvas leads to blood, sex and intimacy.TW: explicit violence, strange sex, brutal kink, antique pliers.





	1. Chapter 1

When I wrote the first letter, I wished. When I wrote the fifth, I hoped. When I wrote the twentieth, I prayed. When he responded, I rejoiced. I had poured myself into dozens of bottles and finally I knew he had drunk one. His invitation was simple with savage undertones, and I accepted gleefully.

My paperwork was on my desk. My bills were paid. My insurance was current. I mailed my mother's ring to my sister. My compass had direction now and I was single-minded in the pursuit of my destination. I locked the door and left the key in the globe of the hall light. I let go.

From the plane, I could see the jagged teeth of Los Angeles, rusted by the sunrise. They reminded me of my own city, fading in the distance hours before. The airport was much the same as the one I'd left. The taste of the air outside, the noise, the taxi were familiar. I had the feeling of being inside a palindrome, reliving my most recent hours in reverse.

I stepped out of the mirror and into the hotel. He had paid for the room and a courier had left a small box for me. The rumor of my patron's identity must have gotten to the clerk. He seemed excited to see me. He offered to carry my bag, but I declined. I was determined to feel everything here, including the weight of my luggage and the burn in my legs as I climbed the stairs.

The room was much nicer than necessary. I dropped my suitcase and sat on the bed with the box. It was unmarked but I knew who had sent it. Inside was a thick leather collar and a handwritten note:

_Sleep._  
_Car at midnight._  
_I do my best work between 3 and 5._  
_Wear it._

I ran my fingers over the stiff black leather, the thick buckle, the obligatory chrome ring. It was arousing. I took it to the bathroom and used the mirror to get a snug fit. It felt right.

I stripped, taking inventory of my improvements - pert, pierced DDs that belied my age, scarred from implants and a lift; a 3-inch tattoo of his lips between them and more on my shoulders and back, an homage in ink; columns of stripes down my outer thighs, memories of razor blades and blood.

I returned to the bed and lay down obediently. _Sleep._ I closed my eyes, but the faucet between my legs demanded attention. I began to stroke my clit with one hand, the other tugging gently on the collar's ring.

The pressure on my neck made me hungry for more. Soon I had forced my fingers between the collar and my throat, gripping the band in my fist. My arteries were constricted by my hand. The room began to fade as my fingers pressed harder and harder, rubbing my slick pussy furiously.

My orgasm erupted and my back arched violently. The last of the air in my lungs forced its way out. The hand at my throat released its grip and joined the other, grinding over my clit. I felt my moisture trickle down and drip into the bed. I was suspended on my shoulders and heels for what seemed like hours. When I finally collapsed onto the damp comforter, I was exhausted.

I wondered for a moment if anyone had heard my strangled scream. I didn't really care. I was here to feel, and the waves of pleasure still licking my edges were unlike any I'd felt before.

I lazily rolled toward the phone and dialed the front desk. The clerk promised a wake-up call at 10.

The ringing phone drew me out of oblivion and back into my hotel room. The clerk reminded me of my wake-up call request and I thanked him, rubbing my eyes.

The room, and my body, smelled of sex. I removed the collar and stepped into the shower. I washed my hair carefully. It would need to be at its best. I unwrapped the tiny soap and giggled at the thought of a single-use item like that meeting a single-use woman like me. The lather ran down my legs and toward the drain. When I turned off the water and reached for the towel, I felt renewed.

I glanced at the clock. _Car at midnight._ It was only 10:30. I had time to do my makeup.

My mirror and supplies had taken up most of my suitcase. I spread them out on the desk and got to work. Primer, foundation, highlighter, setting spray... I had practiced for months. My eyes were perfect, pale blue irises surrounded by a murky blend of black and violet. My lips held similar pigments, moist and well-defined.

My hair was simple, messy waves that framed my face. I knew my look wouldn't last long, but I wanted to arrive perfect. I thought about the importance of presentation in a restaurant as I slid into a bra and panty set, and a black bandage dress. The collar was the perfect accessory.

I sat on the bed and smoked a cigarette, my first in years, blowing the smoke toward the no-smoking sign. The deposit wasn't my concern. And I wanted something grimy inside of me, some prelude to the sensations to come. By the time I'd finished, it was time to strap on my deep violet fuck-me pumps and head downstairs.

I stood outside the door like a goth call girl. I didn't have long to wait. The car was silver and the driver opened the door for me. Inside was a young man in a tailored grey suit. He offered me champagne as we left the hotel. I declined.

"You're going to meet him first," the man said, glancing at his watch. "He wants some time with you beforehand."

My heart fluttered. He wanted time with me. After all my preparation, I was still a starstruck girl. The realness of it hit me. I would meet him first. That, in itself, would have been the defining moment in my life. But I knew that even more awaited me, a true climax.

We arrived at a sprawling house with a "For Sale" sign by the front gate. It was large, but not the imposing manse I assumed he slept in. More likely, it was rented for the occasion. I felt a twinge of disappointment that I wouldn't be allowed into his home. But that was eclipsed by trembling anticipation as the driver opened my door.

The man who had ridden with me offered his arm and I walked up the stairs with him. Inside was a large vestibule with graphically sexual art on each wall. A few sconce lights gave the room a warm glow. The man guided me down a hallway and into a living room.

There were no lights and I blinked rapidly, willing my eyes to adjust to the dark. The man let go of me and left, closing the door behind him. Slowly, a row of couches came into focus, lining one wall. Then a long coffee table. Then a strange shape that suggested a chair but was somehow off. I took a few curious steps toward it.

"Pleased to meet you," the shape said softly.

I jumped at the sound and hugged one arm across my body.

"I'm sorry," the shape said, rising. Its voice was familiar, a gritty purr. "I didn't mean to scare you."

It took a few steps toward me. I froze, the recognition of its voice turning me to stone. It stepped past me, toward the door, and a dimmed overhead light came on. I closed my eyes, not yet ready to see him. I felt him brush my shoulder as he returned to his chair, heard the leather creak under him.

There was a dead silence. I felt his gaze on me and knew he was waiting for me to open my eyes. When I did, I gasped again, this time in awe.

On a black leather chair sat Marilyn Manson, leaning back casually and looking directly at me. His makeup was impeccable, pale skin and plum lips, intense eyes rimmed with thick black liner. I knew that I was staring but I didn't want the moment to end - the unveiling of the man who would consummate my most carnal desires.

"Sit, you're making me nervous."

I smiled and took a place on a couch, turning my torso to face him. He made a vague gesture with one hand and cleared his throat.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, as if the knowledge I sought consisted of words and intonation.

"You're beautiful," I blurted out, then bit my lip and mentally chastised myself.

He chuckled, shyly covering his mouth with his fingers. It was a boyish contrast that made me smile again. I inhaled deeply, searching for his scent. There was a faint hint of salt that made my mouth water. I wanted to eat him.

"Are you sure you can - you want to - do this?" I asked softly.

"Of course." He shifted in his chair and his mouth turned serious. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." The word came out harsher than I intended. He cocked an eyebrow and chuckled.

We looked at one another for a while in silence. He didn't seem uncomfortable. I looked at his tattooed hands, his softened jawline, his dark hair. It was so real, but still an illusion. I fought the urge to touch him, afraid on some level that he would flicker like a hologram and go out. Eventually, he motioned for me to get up.

"Let me see you," he said. "I like that dress."

I thanked him and turned in a very slow circle. When I finished, Marilyn was on his feet and waiting for me. He put two fingers under my chin and moved my head to examine me. His fingers were cold. I obeyed, moving as he directed. His inspection over, he took my hands and brought them to his chest. I could feel him breathing.

When he kissed me, my knees felt weak. It was a gentle peck, like a test. I raised one hand to his shoulder, dragged my fingertips up the curve of his neck, and looked into his eyes. That proved to be the right reaction. He kissed me more deeply, cradling the back of my head. I matched his growing energy, tugging at his jacket.

His lips parted and I took advantage, gently running my tongue across his lower lip. I could taste his makeup and it spurred me on. I gently grazed him with my teeth and pressed my body against him. This was my moment to swallow him before he swallowed me. Every brush on my skin, the firmness of his hand behind my head, the taste and smell of him, all sinking in the well of me.

He stopped abruptly, breathing heavily into my mouth. I wondered if I had done something wrong. I adjusted my stance and felt an erection through his tight pants. I smirked with the knowledge that I'd done something right. He stepped back, sniffed and turned. I followed him through a doorway at the other end of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness again. I could no longer see him but I could hear his footsteps. I followed a bit slower, around a corner, then another. Then he stopped. I stood patiently, accepting that he would move me if he wanted me to move. Sure enough, I soon felt his hands on my shoulders, gently pulling me forward.

My eyes were slow to adjust, but I could see his shape ahead of me, and a low object behind him. He sat down and pulled me close, burying his face in my cleavage. I let him nuzzle, wondering if his makeup would survive at all. He didn't seem to care.

He pulled the shoulders of my dress down. I accommodated him, pulling the dress off and dropping it to one side. He reciprocated, tossing his jacket and shirt behind me. I was sorry that the lights were out. I would have loved to see his tattoos up-close. After another minute kneading and kissing my breasts through my bra, he guided me to sit next to him on what I could then see was a bed.

I removed my bra and leaned back in invitation. He seemed to enjoy my nipple rings, licking them and clicking his teeth against them. I let a moan escape. The sound galvanized his desire. In seconds, he had me flat on my back in the middle of the bed. I heard his belt buckle and the waxy sound of leather being pulled away.

I hooked my thumbs in the sides of my panties and started to pull them down. He snatched my hands away and raised them over my head, lowering himself into a kiss. His skin gliding over mine took my breath away.

His hair brushed my face as he landed tiny nipping kisses up my jawline and onto my neck. He lifted the collar toward my jaw to better access my tender flesh. I shuddered in anticipation and willed him to bite down. I wanted to feel his teeth, a prelude to the things to come. My mind was screaming, "please, please," but I didn't realize I was saying the words out loud.

"Please what?" he murmured from just below my ear.

"Please bite me," I choked out, leaning my head to the side, opening to him.

"Bite what?" He was toying with me.

"My neck, my shoulder... Anywhere... Everywhere..."

I felt his tongue, luxurious velvet. It traced patterns on my skin, raising goosebumps. My frustration was so intense, my hands tried to come down, to push his face into me. One of his hands was still on my wrists and he held them firmly. He grazed my skin with his incisors, tiny scrapes that drove me wild.

"You're lovely," he chuckled, landing one last kiss at the juncture between my neck and shoulder.

Finally, he clamped down. The pain was delightful. I could almost feel the capillaries bursting under the pressure. His writhing tongue lapped at the captured flesh. I moaned and arched my back. I pressed my thighs together and felt a slickness.

He released me and laid a layer of kisses over the traumatized area. I could feel the rumble of his laugh. I was gasping and writhing, on the cusp of an orgasm. I felt like a caught mouse, completely at his mercy and desperate for release. The more I wriggled, the more amused he sounded.

In a moment, he moved to one side of me. Though he had let go of my wrists, I dutifully kept my arms in place. I waited for whatever was coming. What came was a rough hand on my face, prying my mouth open and forcing two fingers inside. I took a deep breath before the fingers were replaced with something decidedly larger.

His cock was thick with a curve that made it hard to hold onto. I groped over it with my lips, wrapped my tongue around it to protect it from my teeth. He sighed heavily and I imagined him with his head thrown back. The visualization of his pleasure inspired me. I shifted my weight to get a better angle and sucked his member down my throat. I was rewarded with a breathy groan.

I didn't have long to enjoy the cock in my mouth. He pulled it out with a pop and kissed my moistened lips. It was a quick kiss, a punctuation between what just ended and what was about to begin. He quickly tore my panties away and settled between my thighs.

"Please," I begged feverishly. "Please, please..."

He shushed me, his voice deep and harsh. I felt his insistence and tilted my hips to meet him. His cock felt even larger as it slowly slid into me. I began to cum before he had finished his first thrust. A scream died in my throat. I brought my hands down and planted them on his ass, pulling him in. He held still while my spasms subsided.

I had no time to catch my breath. He began to move, slowly and deliberately. I lifted my legs to give him a better angle and he thanked me with deep strokes. His flesh ground into mine, spreading my wetness on us both. I moaned loudly, already feeling another orgasm building.

His pace quickened and he dropped his chin. I ran my hands over his shoulders and felt the muscles tense. I imagined the power of his orgasm, the throbbing of his cock, the warm flood of his cum. I tipped over the edge and bucked against him as my pussy milked his cock. My climax wrenched another moan from me, rising into a scream.

In a moment, I was empty. As the final waves crashed over me, I raised my head to search for him. Despite the darkness, I could see his pale body. He was finishing himself by hand, spilling his cum over his chest and stomach. His soft groans sounded so far away. When he had finished, he grabbed a corner of the comforter and wiped it away.

"Why?" I whispered, laid low by his apparent rejection.

"You earn it," he replied, pulling his underwear back up and grabbing his pants.

I stared open-mouthed. He took a couple of minutes putting his pants back on. I watched quietly. I could do nothing else. He spoke clearly as he left the room.

"Panties only. He'll come get you."

I felt tears rising. But there wasn't time to feel sorry for myself. I dug for gratitude. He had, after all, given me so much. He had promised so much. It was selfish to expect more.

I slid from the bed to the floor, unsteady on the heels I was still wearing. I dropped to my knees and felt along the inlaid wood, searching for my panties. I finally found them, took them back to the bed and pulled them over my shoes and up to my hips.

I sat and waited. Staring into the darkness was disorienting. Marilyn was long gone and a shrieking silence had closed in. I tried to guess the time. 1:00? 2:00? I couldn't be sure. I counted my breaths until I lost count. I was staring into space when he came.

The man who had brought me to the house stood at the threshold and knocked on the wall. I turned toward him, emptied by the dark.

"If you could come with me please," he said in a tone that said this was a common occurrence. "He wants you prepped in a specific way."

I stood and joined him in the doorway. He glanced at his watch and offered his arm. We walked back up the hall that had led to the bedroom. I was struck by the juxtaposition: a well-groomed man in a charcoal suit accompanying an all but nude, freshly fucked harlot through the rooms of an impressive LA house.

After a bit of weaving, we reached the room in question. It was brightly lit and my eyes stung. I could hear activity, people rushing by like moths, but I couldn't see them yet. The man guided me to a chair and I sat, blinking furiously, unnerved by the loss of my vision.

As my pupils constricted, I saw myself in a large mirror. I looked like a ragdoll, slumped to one side, hands lying limp in my lap. I centered myself, lifted my shoulders. I wasn't broken yet. I still had dignity.

My face was a mess, lipstick smeared in a way that resembled him, black streaks telling everyone that I had cried in the dark. It was unbecoming.

One of the moths landed at my side. Without saying anything, she began to wipe my face. I could see the dark smudges left on the towel. After several swipes, she tossed the cloth and started again with a new one. When my face was clean, she scrubbed my chest, neck and shoulder, taking his violet kisses but leaving the bruise already blushing on my skin. I was glad she couldn't erase all of him from me.

Another moth brought a large tray covered in makeup and stood, holding it, within arm's reach. I realized that there was no table or counter or vanity. I turned to look at the mirror and saw fingers curled around its edges. They were not artists in a makeup room. They were a makeup room.

A firm hand moved my face back. As she began to apply a new face, I saw that her mouth was covered with a strip of duct tape that closely matched her pale painted skin. When she turned to choose the next product from the tray, her earplugs were barely visible. She was eyes and hands only. Her body was bare, white makeup plastered on every surface, like a concrete statue. He had orchestrated every detail and I felt immersed in him.

The moth periodically turned me to face the mirror, perhaps to obtain my approval, perhaps to give me a flipbook understanding of my transformation. Each time my new, darkening face appeared, I could see the man in the charcoal suit standing against the wall behind me. He occasionally checked his watch.

When the moths were done with me, they offered one last glimpse. My eyes were much bolder than I'd dared to try myself, my lips a rich blood red. My hair was pinned away from my face, the waves intact. The man checked his watch again and stepped forward to claim me.

"This way, please."

I had become accustomed to his polite, matter-of-fact tone. It was oddly comforting. I took his arm and he took me deeper into the house. I wondered if he knew what waited for me.

We descended a long floating staircase. The light from above faded slowly and a fieldstone anteroom came into focus. Simple leather chairs studded the walls. We walked through a side door and into the lamplit main room.

A heavy chain hung from the center of the ceiling, pooling on the stone floor like a snake. Against one wall was a pair of moths, their eyes and mouths taped shut. A long wooden box was suspended between them, attached to harnesses that appeared to distribute its weight. Their perfect white shapes were enticing, broken into pieces by the thick black straps.

The man positioned me near the chain, attached the sturdy quick link to the ring on my collar, pulled it to the back of my neck, and stepped away. My eyes followed him to a large iron wheel jutting out of a hollow in the wall. As he turned it, the chain was drawn up. Soon I was nearly hung, a few inches of slack allowing me tiny movements.

The suited man stood against the wall for several minutes, adjusting his cufflinks from time to time. He seemed to be supervising me. I wasn't going anywhere. I stood patiently despite the adrenaline pumping through me. I wished for time to slow down so that I could savor the moment, becoming just another object in the room.

He checked his watch for the last time, watching it for several seconds. He appeared to be waiting for an exact moment, the start of the witching hour. Finally satisfied, he walked out the door. In the same moment, I heard heavy booted footsteps approaching.

_I do my best work between 3 and 5._

Marilyn's shadow entered the room first, stretching to my feet. He followed close behind with a serious look on his face. His makeup was as it had been when we met and I assumed a moth had redone it. Roomier pinstriped slacks had replaced his tight leather. A matching vest over a crisp white shirt gave him the air of savage sophistication.

He stood in front of me, close enough to smell the sweat and sex that lingered on his skin. Thick-soled boots raised his already tall frame until he towered over me. He rolled his sleeves up a few inches. I held my breath.

"Last chance," he whispered. "You can walk out of here and go home."

I raised my head and took in his features, his lips, his eyes, the line of his nose, the canvas of his brow. He was a painting of god. The silence was his church. Still, I managed a whisper.

"I am home."


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't smile. He didn't chuckle. He looked sad, really. His hand cradled my chin. He studied me, his gaze soft and sensual. I felt like a child. But I wasn't a child. I was a woman. And I was ready. I pursed my lips in a taunting kiss and watched his eyes harden.

He pushed my face away and walked circles around me, stopping occasionally to pinch and prod. I held still for his inspection. Finally he stopped behind me and began.

The open-handed blows to my ass and back shook my body. I spread my feet for a more stable stance and bent forward slightly. He slapped me harder and harder. The rings on his fingers pinched the skin. I bit my lip but I couldn't stop my voice. Lustful grunts became breathy squeals. I could hear him panting between strikes.

He stopped and ran his hands over my burning skin. They stung like a swarm of wasps. A hand rested on my lower back, where his name had been tattooed, surrounded by dripping, deep purple roses.

"I like this," he said simply.

After a brief pause, he strode quickly to the moths and their box. Grabbing them by their harnesses, he tugged them closer to me. They sidestepped awkwardly. He opened the lid of the box and the moths raised their hands to hold it.

From the box he produced a cane, simple but elegant. As he began to strike me with it, I screamed. Tears flowed freely, taking the blackness around my eyes with them. He laid bloody stripes across my shoulders and ass, avoiding the tattoo. I began to prance, unable to hold still any longer. As the blood began to drip down my back, another moisture gathered between my thighs. The cane clattered to the floor.

He rubbed my shoulder, gently teasing the torn skin, and moved to my front. He offered a bloody finger and I sucked it clean. The sick sweetness coated my tongue. I moaned despite the pain.

A sudden movement startled me as he knelt down. He rested his hands on my belly and closed his teeth around my right nipple. I gasped and furrowed my brow. The bite was firm but not enough to draw blood. After giving me a moment to breathe, he bit the other nipple. I looked down at the faint plum-colored rings his lips had left. He traced one with a finger, then began to unbuckle one of my shoes.

Without my heels, I knew I would have to stand on my toes to avoid being hung. I helped him remove them, knowing this would be a comparatively minor challenge. He rubbed my feet in a way that seemed almost subservient. I didn't like it. I pulled my foot away and planted it on the floor. My hands entwined with the chain above my head, giving me more support.

He rose up and took his rings off, tossing them into the box. They clinked against other metal objects, a sound that rekindled my anticipatory excitement. What joys had he planned for us? What terrible pleasures?

I didn't have much time to think before he turned back toward me, a straight razor in his hand. He opened it dramatically, holding the blade inches from my face. I bit my lower lip and he stepped into me. He was almost holding me, pressing against my body as we locked eyes. I felt his fingernails skipping along the raised scars on my outer thigh.

"Did you do these yourself?" his voice was a baritone flutter. I could feel the words hit my tongue.

"Yes."

He nodded and knelt back down, this time at my side. He scraped the razor down my skin and I broke into goosebumps. I barely felt the first slice, but I knew the familiar chill of dripping blood. His breathing became ragged as he touched it. I wondered if floods of stage blood had faded his memory of the real thing. He seemed to enjoy it, finger-painting my hip bone.

Another stinging cut followed, then another, creating a waterfall that oozed onto the floor. He moved around my body and growled as he gave the other thigh an identical shredding. I was getting a little light-headed. I felt his tongue on me, heard him spit.

My fuzzy thoughts snapped to attention when I felt him pull the gusset of my panties aside. He rubbed my blood into the folds of my sex, pausing to reload his fingers several times. I tried to spread my thighs, teetering on the balls of my feet. His fingers entered me and he hummed. I arched as much as I could and moaned. My pelvis rocked, hungry.

He had no interest in satisfying me. Rather, he seemed suddenly concerned with the flow of my blood. I knew from experience that the cuts on my thighs weren't particularly deep and would soon stop bleeding. He gave my legs a light tourniquet to be sure. I could see the violet silk ties knotted snugly. They slowly turned black as they soaked up my blood.

I expected him to move on to the next act. But he stood slowly and walked away. He leaned his back against the far wall and slid into the floor, his long legs bent slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. I could see the blood on his fingers, a smear from his mouth to his chin. He sniffed and the sound echoed.

I felt more naked than I ever had in my life. His mouth opened as if to speak, but closed in silence. The furrows of his eyes and brow gave me conflicting impressions: desire, interest, contempt. Was he second-guessing our pact? I watched him watch me. He covered his mouth with his fingers. That barrier between us felt threatening. I needed him to stay in the moment.

"Please," I choked out.

The word lit him and he got up. He covered the distance between us quickly. Without saying a word, he released my collar from the quick link on the chain. I came down on my heels and swayed for a second. He cleared his throat and went back to his seat on the floor.

I followed and sat a few feet away. The rough stone of the wall was painful on my shoulders, but its chill was surprisingly soothing. We sat in silence as the blood dried on my legs. One of the moths shifted her weight and the contents of the box slid against the side.

"Can they hear us?" I asked, gesturing toward them.

"No." He cleared his throat and looked at the floor.

"Hey," I said softly. "It's ok if you've changed your mind. You don't have to be the one to do it."

He slowly turned to face me. His features were lax.

"You can ask someone else to step in," I continued. "Take a break. Take a walk. Have a drink. But I still need you to stay with me."

He nodded, but his face remained blank. His eyes ran over my face, then unfocused. I moved to lie next to him, my head propped on my hand beside his leg, my tattered body parallel to the wall.

"Why?" he asked. I wasn't sure who he was talking to until he leaned forward and touched my cheek.

"I need to earn it." It might have been an oversimplification, but it was the only way I could articulate the charred needs within me.

He nodded again. I watched his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. He was no longer a painting. He was a man, a pale horse, a true god bound by uncertainty and permenance. I could see the imperfections in his skin. His shoulders dropped as he relaxed into himself.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked, as casually as if we had been watching a movie. "I'm going to get one. Well, I'm going to get someone to bring me one."

"Just a water, thank you."

I sat up so that he could stand. He dug through the box for his cellphone and dialed.

"Hey. Yeah, no, it's fine. I just need a couple of waters. No, don't come in. Just set them down in one if the chairs and I'll come get them. Thanks. Thank you."

He was so polite. He stretched his arms overhead and struck an awkward pose. I was grateful to be allowed beneath his mask. I could see him, the soft him, the real him. He was beautiful.

"So what's that guy's name?" I asked to break the silence.

"Uh, Jeff, I think." He laughed and pushed his hair back. "That's terrible, I don't really know his name. I've only worked with him a couple of times, but he's really reliable."

"And punctual," I chuckled.

"Yeaaah," the sound drug across his lips. "He thinks we're practicing some performance art or something. Or fucking. I don't know. Actually, he doesn't ask a lot of questions."

I nodded, thinking of the bland, unimpressed way Jeff had handled me. I wondered what had happened to him to make him so comfortable in a world of stark detachment.

Footsteps descended the stairs outside. Marilyn held his finger to his lips and peeked around the corner.

"Thanks, Jeff." His voice was muffled. "It is Jeff, isn't it? Cool. Thanks, man."

He popped around the corner and returned with two bottles. He sat back on the floor, legs crossed, and handed one to me. I was undoing the ties around my legs and wadded them up before taking a sip.

"Do you think he would've told you if you had his name wrong?" I mused.

"Shit... Maybe not."

We giggled and cooled off, oddly at ease. It was a stark contrast to the violence that he'd given, that I craved. He drank carefully, a habit I assumed served to protect his lipstick. I followed suit, though I had no idea if mine had survived the biting and licking. My look didn't seem to matter to him.

We finished our water and he looked at me expectantly. I smiled and leaned toward him. I stopped an inch short of a kiss and he made up the distance. His mouth was soft and still tasted like blood. I sighed into him. I had said that someone else could finish, but that was a lie. It had to be him.

Finished with my break, I crossed the room to the iron wheel and let out some slack in the chain. The position of the collar's ring was awkward and I fumbled with the connector. He turned the spool back, leaving just enough for me to stand flat-footed. I raised my arms and stroked the chain enticingly.

Marilyn took hold of me and kissed me deeply. He was present again, but the progress was lost. I needed to draw him into the deep end.

I bit his lips and stroked his bare forearms, my fingers grazing his blood-streaked sleeves. I unbuttoned his vest and the top of his shirt. My nails raked his flesh. Tiny moaning sounds crept from his throat. Soon, I felt a familiar firmness against my pubic bone. I squeezed it through his slacks and he grinned.

"Bite me," I murmured, my breath mixing with his, "please."

He wasted no time and sunk his teeth into my neck. I moaned and ran my hand through his hair, goading him on. Slowly, but steadily, the pressure increased. He began to grind his teeth back and forth, raising welts. I fought to keep my voice down.

My clit burned with need. I lowered my hand and began to rub my red, slick pussy. His hand caught my wrist and pulled it away.

"Yes," I gasped.

He let go of my neck, having failed again to break the skin. I glared at him, my face flushed with arousal.

"I need more, Marilyn," I rumbled. "You promised me more."

 


	4. Chapter 4

He gave a light slap across my face, just enough to move my chin, and turned back to the box. There was a delectable snap as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. When he turned back around, licking his teeth sadistically, he was holding a fine-gauge hypodermic needle, the type reserved for kink. I grinned.

The first stick was at the top of my breast, traveling under the skin for a half-inch or so before breaking back into the air. The next was a few inches down. Then the pattern repeated on the other side. He pierced my arms and stomach, adorable bloodless decorations that did little more than tingle. My pleasure came from the symbolic penetration. The slow warm seemed to suit him.

Out of needles, he took a moment to kiss me. I bit his tongue and cooed at him, assuring him that I was there, consenting, desiring.

The scalpel that came out next perfected his look: bloody dress shirt hanging open, latex gloves, devilish grin. I let go of the chain and traced the keyhole scars on my breasts. He took the hint, cutting lightly, reopening them. I wanted him to cut through all of the layers, to tear the implants out, to fling my flayed nipples over his shoulder, but he was more curious than destructive. He cut in increments, wiping the blood away for a better view.

I was intoxicated by the pain. It sent a thousand volts up my spine. I tried to hold still, to allow him to work with precision, but I couldn't silence my gutteral moans. Tears flowed into my mouth. I turned my head, afraid that he would see them and balk.

There was intense pressure as he cut deeper and deeper. I was sure he could see the full thickness of fat, yellow and pink and bulging. I could feel his fingers enter the cut, exploring the texture of my insides.

The room smelled like raw meat. He'd been kneeling so long that he was unstable when he stood. I thanked him breathlessly. His expression was strange, confusion and pride. He wiped my cheek, tears and eyeshadow coming off on his glove. I pulled him in for a kiss, ruining his shirt.

"More," I croaked. "Please, more."

He turned back to the box, cocked his head and chose two implements: a pair of antique pliers and a small butane torch. He held them up to me. I wrapped my hand around the pliers. He dropped the torch, letting it roll loudly across the floor.

I let go and held my hand out. He brought it up to his face and kissed it, a gesture that made us both laugh. He chose my index finger, held it tightly and set the pliers. He hesitated, looked into my eyes for reassurance. I nodded. The jerk of the pliers separated the nail from its bed and I shrieked. He immediately cradled my jaw, searching. I nodded, my eyes fluttering.

After a few moments of gasping and weeping, I held my hand out again. He obliged, removing the nail from my ring finger. My knees wobbled and he held me up until I found my footing again. I offered my other hand, allowing him to take matching nails, perfect symmetry. My head dropped and I saw them, lying at my feet. I wiped my face, leaving a smear of fresh blood.

He lowered the pliars but I caught his hand and brought it to my face. I shook my head and wrapped my mouth around the tool. It tasted like rust. His eyes went wide. I licked his fingers, my chest heaving, and opened my mouth.

He said nothing but nodded. I folded my legs, putting all of my weight on the collar and opening my mouth as wide as possible. I felt the pliers close around my left front tooth. There was a huge pressure as he yanked, but the tooth didn't move. He wiggled it back and forth as I felt a crunching pain in my jaw. The pain was lessened by the collar restricting my air.

Finally, he gave another strong tug and the connective tissue gave way. I exhaled and watched as blood sprayed his face and the moth behind him. She flinched. He stared at the tooth in awe, the long root, the crack down one side. I raised myself shakily to my feet and reached for his pants. He was rock-hard. He seemed shocked by his own reaction, but the surprise soon melted into a smile. Leering devilishly, he licked his lips and popped the tooth into his mouth. I watched him suck on it, then swallow.

I laughed and spat, painting the floor. My hands tripped over the needles in my stomach, down to my hips. I pushed my panties down and they landed on the stonework with a wet squelch. My fingers found my aching clit and began to rub, the pleasure in perfect harmony with the pain.

He let me touch it for a minute, my chest heaving with moans and sobs. But it wasn't enough for him to watch. He knelt down, pinned my hands to my sides, and kissed my blood-soaked pussy. His tongue found my clit and roamed over it eagerly. I didn't last more than a minute. My knees buckled, slamming my weight hard on to the collar. He stood and lifted me, his left arm beneath mine, his right reaching down to finger me. I could feel him moan, kissing my damaged mouth as I continued to cum.

When the room came back into focus, he was still kissing me, his soft lips soothing the pain in my jaw. I was drooling blood and he let it run down our chins. I pulled my feet under me and stood, kissing him back, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He pulled back, panting, his face a mess of violet lipstick and drying blood. His eyes were glazed. Was he feeling what I felt, a supreme resignation to the possibilities of the flesh? Was he drunk on the power he exerted over me? Was he sick from the copper perfume that filled the room?

He slowly unscrewed the quick link and once again freed my collar. I giggled as he picked me up and spun around, his boots squeaking on the bloody stone.

"How do you do it?" he panted. "How do you endure the intensity?"

"Life is intense," I whispered.

That seemed to make sense to him. He laid me on the floor and I collapsed. My entire body throbbed. The room began to spin. I was sure I hadn't lost enough blood yet, but I did feel sick. I asked him softly for a bucket. He walked briskly to the foyer and returned with a small trashcan. I raised myself up and vomited in the can, water and blood.

He set the can to the side and stroked my hair. My blood was tacky and I could see individual hairs sticking to his glove. He noticed and laughed, shaking his hand, and took both gloves off.

I lay there, letting him love me, for a long time. He removed the needles and dropped them, one by one, into the trash. He ran his fingertips along the now-scabbed cuts on my thighs. He kissed my collarbones and throat. He hummed a song I didn't know. He laid down next to me and held my hand.

The churning of my stomach quieted down. I felt weak, floaty, but not really sick. I squeezed his hand and he squeezed back.

"One more thing," I rasped, my vocal chords sore and swollen. "One more thing, ok? And then you finish me."

"Ok," he whispered. "What's the one thing?"

"I want you to have my tattoo."

He turned his head to look at me. I felt his breathing quicken. When I turned to look, his brow was furrowed.

"Will you do this?" I asked. "Please?"

He nodded, rolled away from me and got up. His heavy footsteps faded toward the door, then returned. He had a cushion from one of the chairs. I laid it on the floor and bent over it, giving him a good view of his name. The cushion was thick enough that my tits didn't touch the floor. I was grateful to avoid the pain of laying on them. I was getting tired.

He knelt next to me and began to carefully cut around the ink. It was barely a tickle, compared to the pain we'd shared before. But once he'd cut the edges I knew it would get much worse.

He paused and touched the skin around the cut. I waited for him to continue, but it seemed he wasn't sure how to proceed.

"Have you ever skinned an animal?" I muttered.

"Uh... No. I have a guy for that."

I chuckled and cleared my throat.

"You need to make sure you're all the way through the skin, like you did on my tits. Then you have to get under it. Lay the blade at an angle and release the skin from the muscle. Hold the flap taut while you work."

I could feel his blade retracing the cut, going deeper and deeper. When he turned the blade and began to make a pocket, it was surprisingly painful. I moaned softly. Blood trickled down my waist, proof that I wasn't empty. As he progressed across my back, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. I didn't want to pass out. Not yet. Not when it was almost over.

The last of the skin released with a sound like an orange being peeled. The sting of the air was brutal, but the nakedness was pure. I rolled off of the cushion and sat on the floor, leaning against it. He showed the tattoo to me. I touched it and could almost feel the touch on my back. It was soft.

He kissed me, gentle pecks, our lips sticking together. I ran my hand down his chest. He laid his hand over it and guided it farther down. His cock, proud and hot, had already been freed from his pants. With his hand on mine, I began to caress it. He set the tempo and the length of our strokes. I could feel him panting into my mouth.

The rest of the world melted away. The only thing that mattered was him, his skin, and my gratitude. My strength was sapped but I called on what reserve I had to grip him firmly and keep the beat.

His teeth grazed my lip as he moaned, tensing like a spring. I smiled. I expected to feel him climax in my hand, but he stopped. He moved my body until I was flat on my back on the cushion and knelt over me. I forced my eyes to open, to see his features twist as he entered me.

His chin and cheek were flaked with dried blood. He licked his lips and opened his mouth wide enough for me to see his tongue. A groan fell out and he closed his eyes tightly. I wrapped my arms around his neck. He plunged deeply, panting to a building rhythm.

I arched to keep the wound on my back from scraping the leather cushion. Instead my ass, still striped and sore, absorbed his thrusts. I ran my hands over his shoulders, feeling his muscles move. I moaned as he bottomed out, grunting loudly.

I could feel the throbbing waves as he filled me with cum. His weight pressed me into the cushion. His arms and back rippled. I could taste his sweat and the heat of his breath. Groans turned to whimpers, and whimpers to deep breaths. He offered a few more languid thrusts, spreading his wetness over my skin.

He rolled away but stayed, holding my hand, kissing my jaw. My vision started to go grey. I looked at him, taking in every pore, every crease, the scent of him, the pain and stiffness of my body and the exhausted curve of his. I drank every detail, every mote of dust in the air, every trickle of sweat.

Once I passed out, he would finish me. He had promised a one-way ticket and I trusted that he would keep his word. I hoped he would cut my throat, empty the last stubborn pints of red over the floor. It would be poetic to have him step in my essence on his way back to his life.

My hand lowered and touched his softening cock. It was slick with cum and my eyes brimmed, overwhelmed at the privilege.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You earned it," he said, a twinge of sadness in his gravely voice.

I closed my eyes and the silence fell in.

 


End file.
